[well i’m not scatologically inclined like Jimmy but i am a Wifemadfucker, so, cheers, raise a glass of something, wink at the proliferating puritans, scoff at the joyblanking puritanifications, drink up and grab lovingly your Wife or if it’s your husband then Wife him madly, gladly, with tender jazz-rhythm ballads of thrust, pump, pamper and Happy Bloomsday to the Bloomsdei…!] . . To NORA  Dublin 16 December 1909 My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As … Continue reading THE BLOOMSDAY ANTI-BLUENOSE FUSILLADE


Well, JJ was a filthy old fucker but I love him, for some reason, and not necessarily because he battled and belittled priests (uniformed customer service representatives of Bizlam) and despite the fact that he relished dirty knickers.  I suppose my long-running esteem of the man can be traced to his militancy as a talent, his unwavering fealty to the Art, his cussed embrace of the alligator of his rhetorical vision, even as this vision pulled him down under into the twilit bayou of Finnegans Wake,  for 17 years, a text I will not pretend to love or hack my … Continue reading BLOOMSDAY in the PLAGUE


    Q: If you’re so good, why haven’t I heard of you? A:  Well, you’re good and I haven’t heard of you, have I? Q: Why bother writing novels at all in a post-literate era? A: Q: Does fiction help, or harm,  in a post-Truth world? A: The difference between loathsome propaganda and honest fiction is the difference between a pickpocket and a magician. In a word: intent. Nimble fingers are not, in and of themselves, the problem. Q: How can people read your novel if they don’t like reading long texts online? A: Think of a novel as … Continue reading QnA


Near a park dedicated to Käthe Kollwitz there’s a corner from which these two towers appear both near to one another and nearly equal in height. Near to this corner is St. George’s bookshop, in front of which I stood this morning at 8am, having forgotten that it won’t open until 11am. There was a girl with white/gold hair standing in front of the unopen book shop, shielding her eyes as she looked East, an unusually large crucifix, on a chain around her neck, reflecting the young sun. Aging symbols are always at risk: from hinting at the depths of … Continue reading BLOOMSDAY IN BERLIN-a gallery